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Draft B2
Splintering reality hitting my thoughts. Denied association, a world beyond control, a spiralling depth of blackness hitting my mind like trying to inhale the bloody worth of my own ego, whatever is it they want? What do they wish to accomplish by talking to me? Like fickle children they flock to me, with single thoughts of trying to gain something, but what? I split the dirt around my corpus, like a projected light, worthy of myself. The unwashed claws, of the masses whom attempted to mob me, they will do more than that I imagine. I tore my lungs with ordering bellows, uninvited thugs. Shall know peace from violence by a such of a higher power. Know this, the astral world calls to you. It's voice; the ordering racket. It's words; propelled parabellum. My name called? Unsure, life does not call my name. Not for an uninvited persons. Cool-whip like. Minute after minute, hour after hour, the slow--painful yet illuminating--truth undresses, staggering my mind. Tonight I shall find peace as I lay these words on paper, though slightly intoxicated, but... what about next time? In my shower lies a mangled poodle I bought from the pet shop earlier today. I tried to vivisect it, but unfortunately it died when I accidently nicked a femoral artery. Luckily, I had managed to gain some enjoyment from the torture, but I still felt unsatisfied. How do I escape this vicious jail? --je ne sais pas!Endlessly trapped in venomous fails, --aidez moi!I repetitively chase dolorifuges as refuges! --mon coeur brule, il souffre et j'en patis grandement, how do I counter that?Though vividly disturbed or maybe somewhat lost, I cathartically reach a state of tranquility. Tinged with guilt. Climax always leaves me with a sense of guilt. Back to her-- She was lain on her bed, the head clouded with a billowing black smoke of negativity that entrapped her in a way which she hardly could describe. The heart, heavy. Though her entire being was focused on the task, not at all could she bring herself to actually execute it. As if a giant adiaphanous wall was erected between the bed and the desk residing next to it, the woman was unable to reach for the wooden block, the intimidating giant that lived and fed off of her attempts, always failed. Scarcely, throughout her life, had she ever seen to completion anything worth doing. The few accomplishments of which she could be proud were simply and completely, nothing more than the results of indirect manipulations and schemings spawned by invisible forces--a million years would never be enough for her to notice the bleak fact. Fantasizing, debating theories and analyzing human psychology were activities in which she found herself constantly engaged. She had gotten so versed in these fields that people always felt terribly attracted or repelled in her presence, for she inescapably scoped the qualities and defaults within each soul to which she was close. The strong, gracious appeal that she felt when identifying some pattern, trait or unseen characteristic in her surroundings, was unmatched. Sports, games, sex or any form of distraction were mere abstract concepts she could not grasp. Never a thought given, never concieved. To such trivial matters, immune she was. But there she happened to be, lain down aimlessly, doing nothing. Mustering the resources and inner strength required to execute what she intended to do couldn’t be more difficult. The construct of her psyche never would allow her to complete even once the desired nor often even to begin, with fingers that itched to work but were far too heavy, too held back by a weight and a drag which she never could place. The pain it countless times generated was dull, yet wildly frustrating and endlessly influencing her self-esteem strongly enough to pump faeces and oceans of more and more despair into the bubble in which she was caged. She knew she ought to act but could she shift the vicious paradigm that defined her own ‘self’? I wonder, how different is her jail from mine? Can I help her to feel as calm as I feel? Serried thoughts. Ignore them. Perhaps this was my crime. Beautiful sedation, oneness with everything, and so aware as her feeling flowed into me. Not a sack of meat, but wishing to be a sack of meat. Sacks and meat have clear duties, clear reasons to be. People don't. If I didn't act now she may never return to her ego and become herself again, forever wishing she was nothing more than a sack of meat. I reached to her, extending my arm through the surface of her bubble and into her hair. I could feel the thoughts simmering, bubbling, screaming in the vagina that was her head, burning my fingers. Dry ice, cold yet smoking, wisping in ribbons around my searing fingertips - every ridge on every pad had now developed an exposed feeling, like a wound with fresh torn scab. All of this sensation stopped the moment I realized it was all in my head. It was all a dream '10/10' CLAP CLAP. This redefined my soul. "My head," the word sounded funny as I silently repeated it in my head. My head. Her head. The world is a giant head. Sometimes it is. It's not really though. Also my head has a penis on it. Does that mean all heads are penises? MY girlfriend has a dick. OH GOD, I'M A FAGGOT. I looked at my hand and it was gently clutching her hair--her hair, smooth and soft like that of an angel's though it was frizzed and pulled at in the woman's avid frustration. I could not remember when I did that; my hand had probably had a head of its own. She did not struggle as I reached down to find a dewiness amongst her glabrous lawn. There was a feeling in this state, that I knew this was her unspoken fantasy. But the I that knew was looking in on the head of my hand as it performed this strange act. Did the I that watches realise her desire? What would become of me in this strange dream. Romance is gay. Gay like so many men nursing on the strong and flexible penises that life has thrown in their way. Flowing around their feet, like blades of grass, spurting at every little touch, filling the fields with a misty hue of manjuice~ Perhaps it is my quest for God that has led me down this path and into her. For though the cheese of my soul is full of nutrients, it lacks many essential protiens needed to sustain my being , meaning that God must feed me his life milk, for I am dependent on such substanence. God contains all essential protiens that I need for eternal life, and I am glad he has such a surplus as to be able to share with all. It is my eternal search for the undiluted protien powders of this immortal and omnipotent being that has led me astray from a society which for so long has only offered a fat-free skim milk equivilant of spiritual fufilment. I was once, in a past life that I have long forsaken, a Jesuit. I never had a clear understanding of what a Jesuit was, so I often felt as if I was simply going through the motions and pretending to care while those around me who had a purpose and an understanding were accomplishing great things, forever seeking new knowledge to help solidify their faith. One day I managed to sequester for myself a civilian leave form, so I headed from the temple into the town located nearby to have lunch with an old friend of mine. We met in a coffee shop and ended up having a rather animated discussion. We were arguing about such trite things as the ether of the universe. At one point during the conversation I exclaimed 'I am a Jesuit and therefore immune to the blindless that results from ritual rotes and rarely raising reservations regarding religious requirements. I am a protestant and by god if I have learned one thing from my religion it is to ask questions!' However my friend informed me that Jesuits are not protestants, but are in fact Catholics. Shortly thereafter I decided that it would better serve everybody involved if I left the faith and continued my quest for knowledge on my own. That is how I became a fry cook. Fry cookery is a much more challenging occupation than people generally give it credit for. Sure, you have 'fry cooks', mindless slobs who act as a biotic assembly line, churning out burger after burger, hot dog after hot dog, all for the joyless consumption by the screaming masses. These types make up the majority of those employed by the fast food industry, individuals who are looking for a paycheck but who have long since given up on deriving any sort of spiritual fufillment from their work. But, every once in a while, a true artist comes along and is placed behind the grill. Somebody who takes the burger and, rather than converting it into souless calories, makes it something beautiful and something to be admired. I am one of those people. The food that I make is not for the common man. Although I may be forced to serve my art to every slob who comes wandering into the store, to every fool who stands in front of the counter with his mouth agape and drool sliding from it to pool onto the floor until I dutifully shovel in the meal which he could never appreciate to send him on his way. Although I may have to throw so many pieces of my priceless works, which are non the less marketed for $3.99, to those empty shells who call themselves human, I do not truly make it for them. My burgers, my hot dogs, my bags of fries, these are all made for the person who can look at my food and say to himself 'this is truly beautiful'. This individual, unlike so may others, is not blindly walking through life. He is awake and conscious, fully experiencing every step that he takes and taking joy from every moment. He will notice how the hotdog that he has been served, with the chili placed on first and the coleslaw on top of that, looks like a little used and slightly mysterious dirt road with a fresh blanket of snow that has just fallen on it. Perhaps he will be reminded of his childhood, of long car rides down this same dirt road to visit his much-loved grandmother who has now been dead for so many years. A tear will well up in his eye and when he bites into that hot dog and he will be overwhelmed with these beautiful memories from his life. The intensity of the mustard, strong and bitter, will reflect what he felt in his heart when his father left him to start a new family. The ketchup, so thick and sweet, is an ode to the innocence of his youth when he would run through the fields with his boyhood friends in a time where it seemed like he would never have to grow up and shoulder the responsibilities of the world on his shoulders. This is who I prepare my food for. It is worth dealing with a million fools in order to serve just one man who can truly appreciate what he has been fed.